


Balancing on the edge, falling without a net

by janescott



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock TV
Genre: Established Relationship, Genderswap, M/M, Pegging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-09
Updated: 2011-06-09
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:31:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janescott/pseuds/janescott
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the sherlock_bb fic meme prompt: John/fem!Sherlock, established relationship. They are together for a month or two, when John, a well-adjusted bisexual- in the spirit of his 'It's all fine' attitude mentions to Sherlock that he sometimes misses being on the receiving end of anal sex. they talk about it; Sherlock is intrigued. And since Sherlock always liked to play around with her own gender a bit (crossdressing etc.), she decides to dress up in a man's suit, put on a strap-on and fuck John up against the wall.Thanks to magenta and etharei for the beta.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Balancing on the edge, falling without a net

**Author's Note:**

> My first Sherlock fic. x-posted to http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/ and http://ficbyjane.livejournal.com/5034.html

“So - is there anything about it that you miss?”

Sherlock rolls on to her side, her black curls framing her face as she props her head up, one elegant hand curved back along her cheek.

John lets his eye trail along the smooth expanse of skin of her arm as he gathers an answer. He’s feeling rather less coherent at the moment and it’s something in Sherlock that he envies - that she can go from one extreme state of being to another with nothing more than a heartbeat or a blink in between.

He frowns when he realises he has absolutely no idea what she’s talking about.

“Anything about what that I miss?”

She shuffles closer, sheets tangling around her long legs, leaning over to trail one long finger over the curve of his ass, skating closer to the centre all the time, making tiny circles on his skin that make him shiver all over.

“About being involved with another man.” Now she’s walking her fingers up and down, a little closer each time, and if John were ten or fifteen years younger, he’d be about ready to go again, and even now his cock is making a valiant effort because Sherlock’s fingers are - oh.

Encircling her wrist with his hand, he pulls it back because there’s no way he can form coherent sentences if she keeps on doing that …

“Um. Why do you ask?” He coughs to try and hide the waver in his voice but he knows it’s no good and wonders why he even _bothers_ when Sherlock can practically read his mind anyway.

“Well, because when I did this before …” she easily twists out of his grasp and resettles her fingers where they were before, ghosting ever-closer to his hole and oh _god_.

“I touched it - brushed against it - by accident earlier, when we were having sex,” Sherlock continues, her tone musing and analytical. John doesn’t know whether that makes this conversation better or worse, but he does know he wishes it were _over_.

“And your reaction was … interesting.”

“Interesting,” John manages to echo, even as Sherlock starts making tiny, lazy circles again, pausing only to trace a long, light line up the curve to the small of his back, where she scratches lightly in one of his never-fail spots, causing him to start slightly under his touch, and bite back a small, but telling moan.

“Yes,” she says, “interesting.”

“Because I thought I was going to come like a fifteen year old?” John asks, aiming for wry and disaffected, and missing by a _mile_.

“Well, you do normally have more stamina than that …” Sherlock digs her nails in harder and John closes his eyes, picturing the faint red trails, and oh _god_. “And it got me thinking. Wondering whether you missed that. Missed …” Sherlock stops there, and her mouth twists up. It’s rare for her to just stop like that - she’s usually blunt and - John can attest in the four weeks since they stopped being flatmates and sometime partners in crime-stoppers and started being something else that he still can’t quite define - incredibly graphic.

In fact not 20 minutes ago she was whispering the filthiest thing into his ear he’d ever heard, his hands tangled in her hair as they fucked, sweet and perfect and _oh god_.

“Being fucked by another man?” he supplies, his tongue feeling thick in his mouth. Sherlock barely reacts. Her fingers still on his skin for a moment, and dig in a little sharper than he’d like when he’s not distracted by the wonderful, glorious endorphins that sex provide. He hisses a breath in and she relents, her eyes hooded, her expression unreadable.

“I _was_ going to say being involved with another man, but given where your thought processes went first, I think I have my answer.” Her mouth curves up in a small smile as she hums in thought, her fingers still absently stroking the small of John’s back.

He wants to ask her what she’s thinking, but the brush of her fingers feels good on his back, so he half-closes his eyes and lets himself drift.

Her voice brings him back, startled, to the present. “So _what_ do you miss about it, exactly?”

John blinks his eyes open, starting slightly at the sudden noise.

“Um. What?” he says, his head feeling foggy and stupid.

“What do you miss,” Sherlock says, softly, her face so close to his now he can feel her breath on his cheek.

John rubs his eyes and rolls on to his back, finding it easier to look up at the ceiling than face Sherlock’s scrutiny. He feels her hand settle on his chest, near his heart but not over it and he breathes in, out as he orders his thoughts.

“John …”

“I haven’t fallen asleep,” he says, a little defensive. “I’m … thinking.”

Remembering. He’s remembering.

Cool-slick fingers and a wide, laughing mouth. Teasing strokes and hot breath against his neck.

The slight stretch of fingers, cool at first, then warming, sliding in; stretching him, fucking him open. Light strokes across his prostate. Laughter, and then a nip of teeth against his ear.

A low-down ache that uncurls slowly, starting at the base of his spine as he (Victor) eases in. Almost slow enough to be teasing, only the hitch in his breath giving him away.

The more filling stretch as he (Victor) starts to fuck John slowly, enticing groans and soft sounds out of him with shifts of his hips and words breathed against his skin.

“Thinking,” Sherlock says, breaking into his memory-train, trailing one finger along the length of his cock, which has hardened again, almost without John realising it.

He lets out a breath as his cock twitches, responding to Sherlock’s touch. “It must be good, whatever it is,” she says, and she doesn’t sound curious, at all, her tone is mild, even as she slides her thumb over the already damp tip of John’s cock, which makes him arch slightly off the bed, but John knows her, knows better.

“Who,” he says, as she slides her hand down again. “Whoever it is.”

“John,” Sherlock says gently, as she lowers her head, her hair tickling at his skin. “I know _who_ ”

“Of course you do,” he tells the ceiling, closing his eyes as she envelopes his cock with her mouth; warm wet and always enticing.

After, she re-settles back on the bed in her former position, head propped on her arm, her eyes fixed on John’s face.

He sighs and stares fixedly at the ceiling. Sherlock’s scrutiny - the fact that she focuses on him just as hard as she does the latest tangle laid at her feet by Lestrade - shouldn’t be flattering, but of course it is. He’s flattered that she gives him the same … regard.

John opens his eyes and reluctantly rolls on to his side so he’s facing Sherlock. He studies her face, her I’m-waiting-John eyebrow tilt, her mouth, still red and slightly used-looking … shaking his head he frowns as he gathers his thoughts and begins talking.

He tells her, haltingly, as best he can, what he misses. Careful to stay focused on the physical, he knows that Sherlock is reading between the lines. Scanning his past love life with the same brain that has caught murderers, kidnappers and thieves and at least once staved off an international scandal.

He describes how it felt - what he misses - about being fucked; being filled … he deliberately uses blunt words: he says _fucked_ and _cock_ (a word he thinks sounds ludicrous in his mouth, but oh, the pictures it gives him …) and Sherlock doesn’t move. Just watches, and he feels pinned to the mattress under her steady gaze.

He manages not to falter as he talks, digging deep into his memories, because it’s been … three years since he was involved with another man (Victor). (John doesn’t count one-night encounters in the darker corners of the world where sheer desperation and loneliness had driven him out into the night, seeking … and then it was only ever indifferent hands on his skin. Not that, witih strangers. Never that.)

“Um,” he says, finally, when he catches up with what’s been coming out of his mouth. “I … uh, that was oversharing. A bit.”

“Hmmm,” is all Sherlock says, but there’s a curve at the corners of her mouth, a small smile that John thinks of as _his_ , and he breathes out, relieved.

“I didn’t mean to make it sound like I was - comparing. I just -”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t want to know, John.”

John finds a smile of his own, for Sherlock and reaches out to tuck an errant curl back behind her ear. It springs back almost immediately.

“Sherlock.” He could say so many things: He could say ‘I love you’ (he hasn’t, but he does) or he could say ‘if you were standing there beside Victor right now, I would still choose you’ (also impossible. Victor has been … gone for more than two years. But no less true for that).

He settles for “Go to sleep.”

Somehow, for the next few days, John manages to maintain a semblance of a normal life. Sherlock is buried in research for god-knows-what, and he’s determined not to ask what it is. He puts in office hours at the clinic, comes home at night, even cooks dinner.

He lets Sherlock be, even though he knows she’s not really sleeping. She’ll eat, if John puts the food right in front of her, but otherwise she’s curled up in the chair, laptop open, fingers and eyes moving, moving.

John waits. He goes to work, comes home, puts food in front of Sherlock, who mutters or grunts at him, and he waits.

His patience is, for want of a better term, rewarded after about four days. He’s finishing up with his last patient, and he’s ready to go home, shower off the day, and be gloriously ignored again by Sherlock when his phone beeps. He waves his patient off to the nurse, and glances down at his phone.

 _Meet me at 7. Red’s. You have time to go home and shower the smell of that bloody clinic off_

Charming, John thinks, but he’s smiling as he leaves.

He gets another text as he hails a taxi, in too much of a hurry to take the tube. _and wear something nice. no jumpers._

John owns one suit and thank god, it’s clean. Magically dry-cleaned and pristine in the bag.

Mrs Hudson, most likely, and John makes a mental note to add a little something to their rent.

He arrives at Red’s - a painfully new, painfully self-aware bar - with seconds to spare. Scanning the room, John doesn’t see Sherlock, so heads for the bar, perching precariously on an incredibly uncomfortable stool.

He looks around again - there’s a low hum of conversation but the bar isn’t particularly full - and pauses to admire a pair of long legs, sticking out from one of the stupidly small tables artfully scattered about. His eyes travel up, and up, and he gets as far as ‘mmm …. tall’ before the bartender interrupts and asks what he wants to drink.

Distracted, John orders a whiskey and downs half of it absently, his eyes returning to the stranger’s legs.

He’ll never do anything but look, but sees no harm in it and amuses himself with trying to pick out small details to share with Sherlock when she arrives. He settles on to the stool as best he can, figuring that Sherlock’s caught up in something.

Either the research that’s been consuming her lately, or Lestrade, or her brother … any one of a thousand things could distract her from John.

He knows this, but he’s still not worried, because whatever else happens tonight - even if he ends up dining alone and waiting here until the place closes - she’ll come, eventually.

His phone beeps again as he’s ordering a second drink.

John looks up, startled. He hadn’t seen Sherlock … the legs. Those long legs in the suit trousers … he takes a drink of his whiskey, his mouth dry, and stares at the time display on his phone.

The minutes are agonisingly slow. John orders another drink and wills the seconds to tick by faster.

Finally he slides off the stool - carefully, so he doesn’t pitch forward right on to the ground, because they’re not really made for _sitting_ \- he makes his way to the back of the bar, down a short corridor to the bathrooms.

There’s an out of order sign hanging from the men’s bathroom door, and John hesitates for a moment. Long enough for the door to swing open and …

“Jesus _Christ_.”

“Mmmmm … no. But I’m assuming that means you like it.”

Sherlock stands in the bathroom doorway, spreads her hands and turns around.

She’s dressed head-to-toe in a perfectly tailored, black men’s suit. The trousers cling to her legs in very distracting places, the white shirt clings to her torso … her _flat_ torso, John realises, meaning she’s gone to the trouble of binding her breasts, and _jesus_.

She’s wearing a tie, sapphire blue and perfectly knotted, the white column of her throat looking even paler under the harsh lights of the bathroom.

Her hair is pulled back, a smooth black cap, framing her face. She looks perfectly androgynous like this: a delicate balance between male and female and John _wants_ her more than he ever has.

“You look …” he reaches out his hand, then drops it, unsure if he can touch her. He wants to fuck up her perfection so badly, but at the same time he wants to freeze her like this - keep this moment in time for himself forever.

Sherlock smiles - the small curve of her lips that’s just for John, and beckons him into the bathroom with a crook of her finger.

John follows, dazed and half-hard already, his eyes automatically dropping to the shift and play of Sherlock’s ass under the trousers, which fit her really … “what’s that?” he asks, spying the open briefcase on the counter as he shuts the door behind him.

“I was thinking about what you said,” Sherlock murmurs, backing him into the wall by the sinks. “About how much you miss being fucked …”

Oh.

Oh _jesus_

John looks again, distracted as Sherlock methodically starts stripping off her clothes, folding them and placing them on the counter between two of the sinks. He leans back against the wall and just … stares.

She glances up at him as a strand of hair breaks free, framing one side of her face. “John, for this to happen, you have to take your clothes off.”

“I - for what to happen?” He feels fuzzy and stupid suddenly, staring at the long line of Sherlock’s body - the curve of her hips, the binding across her breasts …

“For me to fuck you,” she says. “When you were talking about it you sounded so … I’d hate for you to miss something you enjoyed so much.”

“I. Um.”

“Clothes, John,” Sherlock says, briskly. “I have to get this damn thing on. So clothes off, then turn around, and face the wall, all right?”

She frames it like a question but it’s really not and John finds himself unbuttoning his shirt, unable to take his eyes from Sherlock as she settles the harness around her hips, and adjusts the distractingly large dildo protruding from it.

It should look ridiculous. It sort of does look ridiculous but all John can do is stare. He toes off his shoes, pulls off his socks and pushes down his trousers, groaning in relief as his now fully-hard cock is freed. He strokes it once, twice, almost absently, staring at Sherlock again.

“Turn around, John. Put your hands up on the wall above your head.” John obeys almost by instinct; the desire to do whatever Sherlock tells him to already ingrained in his muscle-memory.

He lies his hands flat on the wall tiles above his head, digging his fingers into the shallow grouting. He takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly when he feels Sherlock’s finger, cool and slick with lube, brush against his hole, slow but not tentative as she pushes in.

John can feel the dildo pressing against his back and shifts slightly as Sherlock twists her wrist, moving her finger back and forth, back and forth … “Another,” John says, quietly. Almost too quietly. “Sherlock, please, another …”

She says nothing, just leans against him, fitting her chest to his back. He can feel her skin warm against his, the peaks of her nipples digging in slightly.

He groans when her finger brushes against his prostate. She smiles against his shoulder, and then she’s fucking him in earnest with her fingers. Two, then three and John doesn’t know if he’s going to last much longer. He digs his fingers into the grout again, the tiles warm under his skin now and rests his forehead against the wall.

“I need, I need …”

Sherlock nips at his shoulder with her teeth as she withdraws her fingers and John groans at the sudden loss. He feels empty and aching for a moment as Sherlock shifts back, moving to adjust the dildo. John glances sideways into the mirror, watching as she slicks it all over with lube, a small frown creasing her forehead.

She looks up and smiles at him in the mirror. “Ready?”

He nods at the same time as she begins pushing into him, the dildo stretching and filling him at the same time. He loses time for a few moments; everything goes fuzzy at the edges, and all he can feel are the tiles under his hands, and Sherlock’s skin against his own, and the filling stretch of the dildo as she pushes it into him.

Sherlock bottoms out, and pauses, taking a breath that uncurls hot against John’s neck. She shifts slightly, which is enough for the dildo to nudge John’s prostate, and he has to bite his lip to swallow the cry that wants to force itself from his throat.

Sherlock fits a hand against John’s hip, adjusting his position, and then she’s _fucking_ him. She’s fucking him and it’s slow, sweet torture. It hurts, a little, because it has been three years since anyone fucked him anything like this but jesus, it’s perfect too and how could he have forgotten how this feels?

There are differences, of course. The dildo feels exactly like what it is: a tube of silicone; nothing like a real cock but it’s close enough and it’s _Sherlock_ so John doesn’t care. He hears the whine building in his throat when she starts fucking into him harder and faster, both her hands on his hips, nails digging in just over the jut of his bones.

His cock is leaking now, it fucking hurts; it’s pulsing along with his heartbeat and he wonders for a wild second if he could come like this; with no hand on his cock at all, but the feel of Sherlock behind him, her breasts pressing against his back, _fucking_ him like she hasn’t seen him for weeks and _jesus_.

“John.” Her voice is low, right by his ear. “Let go, John, come on … like this. Just like -” this. He’s coming hard, almost sobbing as he bites down on his bottom lip hard enough to hurt, the pain a sharp counterpoint to his orgasm punching through him hard and faster than he’s ready for.

Sherlock stills behind him as he takes a deep, gulping breath, his heart racing. Sherlock pulls the dildo out and John does moan then, almost too loud as he feels the loss of it. He leans against the wall, pressing his forehead to the tile as he watches Sherlock strip the harness from her body, discarding it on the floor with a clatter. She meets his eyes in the mirror and he pushes back, switching places as Sherlock leans back against the wall, facing him this time.

John doesn’t even think about it - he goes to his knees as Sherlock spreads her legs and he presses in with his tongue. Everything feels swollen and wet as Sherlock’s taste and smell floods his senses, and it’s almost too much. He gently rubs her clit with his thumb and she moans above him, tangling her hands in his hair, pulling him forward.

She tenses, right before she comes, John can feel the muscles in her thighs tighten on either side of his head. He just fucks up deeper into her with his tongue, pressing his thumb against her clit the way he knows she likes it in this, in the instant right before, where she seems to need a little spike to send her over the edge.

Sherlock comes, gasping, her fingers digging hard into John’s shoulder. (He’ll look at the finger-shaped bruises in the morning before Sherlock wakes up and jerk off, silently and fast, bent over the bathroom sink, teeth sunk deep into his bottom lip. She’ll know, anyway.)

They’re silent for a moment, after. John sits back as Sherlock slides down the wall, her eyes half-closed. There are marks near her hips, from the buckles on the harness, and John’s eyes fixate on those until he feels like his world has somewhat righted itself.

By then, of course, Sherlock is already moving. She has her trousers back on already, shoes; and she’s re-binding her breasts. “The shirt fits better,” she explains, when she catches John’s eye. He just nods and watches as his Sherlock disappears into the suit - into the blurred-line androgynous male/female creature she first presented him with.

Leaning down, Sherlock presses a small, dry kiss to the side of his mouth. “I’m going to take the sign off the door, so you had better move into a stall to clean up. I’ll get a cab, and we can go home.”

John turns his head, catching her mouth with his own. She freezes, then kisses him back, her lips curving against his. She lingers, then, kissing him back, slipping her tongue into his mouth, making a small sound in the back of her throat as John curls a hand around her neck.

“Home,” she murmurs, when she breaks the kiss.

“Home,” John echoes, managing to pull himself to standing, gathering his clothes, watching as Sherlock tucks the harness and dildo back into her briefcase.

“I’ll see you outside.”

John can only nod, before he retreats to a stall, locking the door and using the thin toilet paper to clean himself up as best he can. He still aches, from the dildo and he pauses, closing his eyes, setting the just played out scene in his mind, locking on to as many details as he can, as he dresses.

By the time he comes out of the stall, the bathroom has become a mini-hive of activity, and he slips out, unnoticed.

Sherlock’s waiting on the curb, a taxi idling on the road beside her. John watches for a moment, and thinks that his heart is going to stop, or possibly burst out of his chest. Slowly he closes the door of the bar behind him and makes his way over.

Sherlock glances up when she sees him, her expression serious and her eyes already taking on the all-too-familiar glint of a predator in search of new prey.

“Lestrade” she says, holding up her phone so John can see the message.

John just nods, getting into the car and tapping on the divider.

“Scotland Yard,” he says, as Sherlock settles across from him, shutting the door as the cab drives off into the London night.


End file.
